To say I froze my bollocks off as I exited the cold Afghan water and stood by the 4x4 is an understatement. I stood there with a pistol in my hand shivering uncontrollably as Mickey and Jimmy cleared away the kit. Solly was the same as me, his desert pattened uniform dripped wet, his hands trembled like an alcoholic after several days binge drinking and our teeth chattered, as we emptied our pockets by the 4x4, and then stripped naked. Our clothes were strapped over the vehicle roof to help dry them as we drove, and the pair of us located ourselves in the rear of the car under a couple of old tartan car blankets. We cuddled up for warth, using our body heat to warm each another, and doubled the blankets round ourselves whilst the other two packed the gear in the back, and then then took up positions in the front.
It was dangerous putting Mickey and Jimmy together in the front, but I had no option, as I told them once they clambered aboard.
'You two fuckin' behave,' I said strongly. I didn't need two of my troop exchanging blows at 5Omph along some torn up Afghan road. One mistake on those unmaintained highways and it'd throw the vehicle from the road and land us all in a ditch. The vehicle would be fucked, and us either battered or unable to continue with the mission. The 4x4 wasn't just our transport in, more importantly it was our transport out. Mickey reached out his right hand and clasped Jimmy's left hand in his. He turned round, looked at me, winked and blewa little kiss, telling me they were good friends now. Fucking idiot.
'Just drive,' I ordered, as I sat there shivering and shaking.
Jimmy shook off Mickey's hand, throwing a few expletives as he did so, pressed the start button and fired the engine. He found the drive gear, and we rolled away from the battle scene onto the road, turned left and headed towards our destination. We must have been on the road a good seven hours before we reached Jallalabad. I managed to dress myself after about three hours into the journey, and in warm clothes, I ordered the car stopped, and Jimmy into the back so I could drive. I liked to be at the wheel, I always felt more in control in the driver's seat.
It was a touch after midday when we hit the main drag leading into Jallalabad. The road was no more than a wide, unmanaged, crater riddled stretch of highway that threw the 4x4 around like someone shaking a cocktail, making our bodies judder as we rolled along. As the city grew closer, the poverty became endemic. If I thought the kids on the streets of Pakistan had it bad, then this place was an affront to humanity. It didn't look that dissimilar to Dresden after the RAF and USAF had finished with it during the second world war. The buildings stood like a mouthful of broken teeth, all shattered with no windows or doors, except for the odd makeshift plank of wood leant up against them. Everything was mud coloured, and the lack of colour was reflective in everything we saw. It was like an old yellowed picture.
'For fuck sakes,' said Solly, softly, as his eyes scanned the immediate vicinity and out over the ambient area. 'How the fuck does anyone live like this?' He asked. It was a sound question, but not our concern. We were hear to do a job, then fuck off home, I didn't need Solly to confuse us with a real UN aid team. The flag which fluttered in a light breeze on the back of our motor was merelya decoy to our real intention.
As the city increased in size, as building and life became more chaotic, we witnessed the women in burkkas. It seemed so strance to see women, looking like darleks moving along what passed for pavements. They were all dressed in light blue tents, with just a thin piece of perferated material to see through. I nodded at a couple of them, and quipped to Jimmy: 'Don't fancy yours muck.' I thought it might take his mind off the poverty, which attacked our eyes from every direction.
As we entered the city proper, I noticed what few small shops there was selling old recycled goods, and a few treats brought in across the border from Pakistan. In one old derillect two storey building without any windows I saw a television flicker away, and it seemed the whole town gathered to watch whatever passed as an Afghan soap opera. It was a decrepit black and white set from what I saw, which appeared to be snowing on the screen -and from the dwelling came screechy Paki music, Bollywood style. We continued along the main road, our presence gradually attracting attention as our vehicle slowly cruised by. Some old brown dog what looked like a Dingo chased into the street barking at us, and I hit the breaks. The dog sat there on its arse, its jaws going ten-to-the-penny as it yapped away undirectionally.
It didn't even look at us as it barked, but appeared as though it had to inform everyone in town of our arrival. If I blasted the horn, it would alert the Afghans even more, if I did nothing we could spend the next hour or so sitting there like the proverbial sore thumb. If I got out and kicked the fucking thing, no doubt the bastard would turn round and bite me, and within a day or two I'd be foaming at the mouth. Rabies was all part of the colourful tapestry of life in Afghanistan. I rolled the 4x4 slowly forward hoping the animal might have the good sense to shift his manky arse before I ran him over, but I forgot, life doesn't work like that does it. It's the same when you drop your toast in the morning, always lands butter side down, and the situation before us was strikingly similar. As I gradually increased speed, the dog lay down and continued yapping. I pushed the car farther foward, and just as the dog was about to disappear under the front end, some toothless old Afghan boy came dashing from one of the shattered, mud built dwellings. He screamed something at us in Afghan, as he waved his right arm around as though he hand no control over it, and then slapped the bonnet of our car once he reached us.
'Probably his dinner,' I muttered, smiled and snapped my fingers towards Mickey. 'Fags,' I said in a word. Mickey gave me twenty 555s and I handed them out the window to the old man of the ruins as a peace offering. His eyes caught sight of them and he rounded to the window. He smiled taking them, jibbered something in his own tongue and then kicked the dog so hard it raced off towars the builings howling, its tail well and truly between its legs. 'See, that's all you 'ad to do,' said Solly.
'Yeah, of course,' I laughed as we drove slowly on: 'If I'd kicked the fuckin' animal it'd have taken my fuckin' leg off. ,
The centre of town wasn't that much different to anywhere else on the planet, the centre of town was where most business got done. There was people everywhere dressed in traditional robes, turbans and scarves. A few people punctuated the streets in western gear brought in by the aid charities, and I smiled at the guys in their western suit jackets. They looked so out of place. In fact, they reminded me of myoid man. He always wore a suit jacket, never a leather coat or bomber jacket, always the jacket of one of his suits. He had the d ress sense of a politician myoid man. On the far pavement, we watched two large gentlemen in long Afghan smocks, blue waistcoats and green turbans beating a woman in a light blue burkka. She was down on her knees, her arms over her head as the two guys laid heavily into her with bullwhips. Jesus, how I wish I could take them chaps round to meet my ex-wife. In Afghanistan women are not allowed to leave the house without the husband's permission, in fact they can't do fuck all without the husband's permission, and quite frankly that's the way it should be.
We rolled steadily along the main drag, the 4x4 rocking left and right on the uneven road surface, our arrival attracting everyone's attention. Up ahead on the left was a brand new open backed black Mazda 4x4, and from what I could gather as I slowed to a near stod, the Afghans appeared to play, see howmany Teliban you can squeeze in the back. There was four of them seated, two either side, both with Kalashnikovs; six more trying to scramble aboard. I stopped to offer them a chance to fuck off before I levelled with them. A fire fight in the middle of town would fuck the whole operation, so I didn't want to give them an excuse to stop me. Once loaded, the black Mazda 4x4 powered away, leaving a cloud of dust where it once sat.
'Don't fockin' like this Jonny,' mumbled Jimmy, his voice filled with tension. He was packing it as usual. The Afghans don't tend to fuck with foreingers unless they consider it absolutely necessary. They prefer to watch, wait for darkness to descend and then go about their business. A yellow taxi with white doors passed us at speed, blasting its hooter as it went, and I wondered if our old mate Manuel might be behind the wheel. He most certainly drove like him.
As the city grew in dimension, and the buildings became more prominent, I noticed one in particular. It was a boxed style two storey villa type complex, with high garden walls and black, iron gates. There was a huge aerial on the roof, like the ones you get on the roof of mini cab firms, and a big breen sign by the entrance. It was in arabic, but underneath it had the word: 'Police,' in English. I indicated, pulled the vehicle in and stopped. I noticed Jimmy's face in the rearview mirror turn ghost white.
'What'da fock ya playin at Jonny, for fock sakes?' Said Jimmy.
I wasn't particularly playing at anything in particular, and Jimmy should've understood, that when it comes to these places, you have to front it out. With hundreds of thousands of Afghans in the city, tens of thousans of them affiliated either directly or indirectly to the Teliban, it's best to be up front. If the Teliban or el-Qa'ida were expecting an attack, they wouldn't expect you to knock on the door of the local nick and annoyance yourself. And that's exactly what intended to do. I ripped open the car door, stepped out and stretched, making it all look very normal. I slammed the car door and was observed by an Afghan with rifle slung over his shoulder who walked casually towards us. I raised my hand friendly and rounded the vehicle, opened the compound gate and walked authoritively up the path, pushed a double panelled glass door open and entered. The building wasn't much different than an ordinary house. There was a large front room with a worn teak coloured desk, a red Indian rug on the floor and a few big puffed cusions scattered on the periphery. As I walked in a guy came towards me from the other direction. He was young, twenties I suppose, dressed in long green silk smock with matching trousers underneath and a cream coloured turban, with long scarf drapped over his right shoulder. He had a thick bushy black beard and small spectacles. 'Top of the mornin',' I said, extending my hand: 'Paddy McGinty's goat, Irish sheep shagging regiment, nice to meet you.' He took my hand in his and splutted: 'Kak kak, blah, blah, kak, blah, kak, kak,' or at least that's what it fucking sounded like to me. But words don't matter. I gave him a hug. The Afghans are no different from us. If some fucking idiot came up to you in the High St. and gave you a hug, you'd wonder want the fuck was going on too.
'We're from the U-ni-ted Na-tions,' I explained, slowly, and let him go. He got the gist if not the whole thing. 'We're here to arrange food convoys.' I gestured with my hands, so he caught the gist of it again. 'For pe -pie,' I shouted.
'No,' he said strongly. 'No UN, not allowed.'
I took a gold soverign from my jacket pocket and held it in front of his face. I thought the fucker could tell me again I wasn't allowed. A gold soverign was the equivalent to six months wages in this neck of the woods, and with Afghanis trading at nearly 3 million for a thousand US dollars, he'd soon weaken. I wasn't wrong, he looked quickly over his shoulder, rubbed his beard, thought momentarily, then snatched the coin. Deal done. Simple. 'We need au-thor-ri-ty,' I mouthed, holding my hand flat like a note pad and scribbling away on top with an imaginary pen. 'You,' I pointed, 'give us, per-miss-ion, yes.' I nodded my head to encourage the bloke. I found another coin and held it in the same tempting manner as before. He whipped it from my hand, moved to his desk, babbled something illegible as he wrote a docket, stamped it and ushered me out.
Why couldn't things be that simple back home. Go to the tax office, give the man a gold coin, he forgets about my tax return. Because Britain would look like this place. I left the compound with a piece of paper that looked as if the guy wiped his arse with it. It was a shitty brown colour, frayed at the edges, covered in squiggles. I suppose it meant something to someone. It was the official stamp I wanted on it, nothing else really mattered.
The chances were, whoever I showed it to wouldn't be able to read or write anyway, so what fucking differance did it make? Absolutely none. It was all part of understanding how the local malitia work, and how the indigenous population are terrorised by their own leaders. No doubt the Teliban had instilled so much fear throughout the country, anyone who viewed the document would worry about getting their head cut off if they disobeyed it. I saw decapitations the last time I was in Afghanistan, criminals dragged out to the centre playing area in football stadia and executions take place in front of tens of thousands of euphoric locals.
I walked back to the 4x4, opened the door and hopped in. Jimmy sat in the back clutching an Armalite, as though he was an alcoholic clutching a bottle of Olde English cider on a park bench.
'You fuckin' worry too much,' I said shaking my head, as I fired the engine.
'Fockin' mad,' retorted Jimmy, leaning between the front seats, tapping his temple. Okay, so there was an element of insanity to what I did, but in all honesty, what alternative did we have? We were in a large white 4x4, the UN painted in two foot high black stickers allover the vehicle, a bright blue flag flapping in the wind with an Irish tricolour on the other side. We were three honkies, as white as the driven snow, and a big blackman, in desert pattened camoflage gear. We didn't exactly blend in with the surroundings now did we! Bollocks, bullshit, front it out was the best option. If we dressed as Afghans they'd spot us a mile away. Around here you're either part of the Teliban and its evil empire, or part of the enemy. So what would happen if they took a dislike to a UN crew. The most likely outcome would be an escort back to the border and some Afghan warlord telling us not to come back, on the other hand, if they caught us dressed in tribal robes we'd be tortured, cut up, taken out, our arms tied behind our backs and a bullet placed through our heads. Jimmy might of thought I was fucking mad, but I'm good at my job, and I don't fucking bottle it. All I needed now was a smelly Afghan to sit in the front with me, and we could evaluate the situation. I slammed the car into drive and wheelspun away.
I drove round the town on the dirt roads looking at the sketletal buildings what sustained years of bomb damage and machine gun fire. There was ruins everywhere, and all the mud baked walls, without exception were riddle in large holes where gun fired peppered them. But like so many war torn hellholes round the world, this one carried on as normal: children still played in the streets, taxis and buses raced to-and-fro and people skuttled about trying to scrape a living. Women walked in pairs, their bodies hidden by burkas. They looked like ghostly apperitions gliding along the sidewalk, and I shook my head at the spectacle. What a dump. Mind you, it wasn't entirely the poor old Afghans fault, they'd been shafted by everyone on the planet over the years, from us Brits, to the merciless Russians, and in fairness, they'd seen us all off. Now they had the prospects of the Yanks coming, and as I scanned their homeland, panoramic, I felt sorry for them. No one fucking deserved this.
In the distance, where the dirt road finished and a sort of roundabout had been placed, a guy squatted on the pavement at the side of the road. He sat there with his hand out, looking for a touch of genorosity from any passing stranger. I assumed he was probably one of the many millions crippled by war, land mines and a world that couldn't give a fuck about him or his problems. I indicated, pulled over and stopped the car next to him. I got out, while the others waited in the 4x4, its engine idlling. I walked over to him and jabbed him with my boot to gain his attention. He looked up at me, shielding his eyes with his begging hand from the powerful overhead sun.
'You wanna make some mun-nee?' I said, rubbing my fingers together as though adding salt to a meal. 'Lots of dosh...' He stood with a struggle, reached about shoulder height against me, and what I thought was an old man was no more than a boy: sixteen, seventeen with a push, old before his time. His right arm was missing from the elbow and his left eye was gone. There was just a deep socket where it should've been. The right eye was piercing blue, and like so many of the Afghans, I considered him a product of some dark, distant war. I'd imagine either his mother or grandmother had been at it with the enemy troops for a few luxuries, and he, like so many of his fellow countrymen was the resulting product. He was a real Heinze 57.
'Speak-e da English?' I asked.
'Good bits English, Sir.' He replied.
I assume he'd learned his English from the few TV programmes they were allowed to see, probably old day time soaps from Britian, Australia and the US. It wasn't. 'Good English,' but it was passable for what I had in mind. In fact, all I really wanted him to do was sit in the passanger seat, keep his trap shut and do as he was told. He was just another part of the deception. An Afghan in the front seat suggested an official interpreter and with an official stamp on the shitty bit of paper I had stuffed in my pocket, the illusion was complete.
'You show me round town?' I asked, drawing big circles in the air with my finger. I shoved my right hand in my jacket pocket and found another shiney gold sovereign. His eyes widened like saucers:
'We - do - deal?' I asked.
His one good hand snatched for the coin before I could finish, and whipping my arm away until I got an answer, I repeated the question: 'We do deal?' His head nodded profusely. I turned back to the vehicle and leaned in through the driver's window, ordering Mickey in the back with the other two. Our new little Afghan mate, who I decided to nic-name Nelson, because he lost his leg, arm and eye, I put in the front. When All five of us were ready for the off, I turned, gave Nelson his gold coin and explained the SP (Standard Procedure.) to him.
'If anyone asks what you're doin' with us, you say you are an interpreteur from the Teliban. ..'
The word 'Teliban' was enough to make Nelson fart, reach for the door handle, and try to leave the vehicle. At least I think he farted. It certainly smelt that way. 'No, it's okay,' I said, reassuring him. 'Look see,' I continued, unfolded the shitty bit of paper and pushed it towards him. 'See, Teliban know we're here. We're allowed. We have permission,' I added. Nelson was guilable enough to think we were genuine. He reached out his hand and steadied the document, his lips widened to reveal a set of black spikey teeth between his bumfluff beard, and he said: 'Teliban say okay.'
I didn't have the heart to tell him they'd cut his fucking tongue out if they caught us. That was something Nelson didn't need to know as he sat in the passenger seat with his new found status. He obviously thought he was important, and with a gold coin in his pocket, who the hell was I to tell him otherwise.
'You Englishmen,' he said, as I drove us away to a quiet spot.
'Pad-dies,' I replied with big lip movement, glimpsing him briefly. As his forehead frowned confused, I elaborated for him. 'Big thick Irishmen.'
'Ah, Guiness, no? Glug! glug!' He laughed.
'Yeah, that's right, Mate, guiness.' I laughed.
'You go back through English-land later, yes?'
Nelson wasn't as stupid as he looked. He might have been dressed in wretched, smelly rags and a shreaded turban, but the old grey matter was firing on all cylinders, and I thought Nelson was on the ponce for something. 'We go back English-land later alright, mate,' I mimicked.
'I come with'a you, yes? I cum-ma English-land to be Asylum seeker, no?' Jimmy mumbled in the back: 'Why fockin' not, must of your fockin' mates are already there. We give you nice big house, Sinbad, eh?' Shouted Jimmy, his voice a growl. 'I work sixty fockin' hours a week for peanuts so you can live the fockin' life of Reily. Chuck the foker out Jonny.'
'He's names Nelson,' I said.
'Why Nelson?' Shouted Jimmy, as the car started to shake eratically as we hit an uneven stretch of open road that looked as though it had recently been shelled. 'No arm, no eye, no fuckin' leg Jimmy.' I called.
'Loose eye, loose arm, loose foot, loose ear,' said Nelson, nearly getting it right. He pushed his turban and hair back to prove the point. 'Teliban fight drugs men,' said Nelson, explaining what happened to him. 'I fight with Teliban,' he continued. 'Drugs men capture me, cut bits off to stop others fighting.' He said, accentuating his point, and in the process, shut Jimmy up. 'Drugs men not nice, kill sisters,' said Nelson. I glimpsed Jimmy in the rearview mirror, and although Jimmy sat hunched in a ball in between Mickey and Solly, with his arms folded defensively, he knew he had something in common with the boy. They'd both lost family to the evil drugs barons, but at least Jimmy still had his bits: or at least he did for the time being. I could've said something, but chose not to. Jimmy can be a touchy sod when he wants to be; sometimes it's better to let him wallow in his own self pity and just get on with it.
From the aerial photos and maps I studdied both back in London, and the ones I borrowed from the Yanks, I had a fairly shrewed idea of where I was going. I wanted to check my route into the target, and perhaps more importantly, my route out of the target. We didn't need to be driving round in circles once the PE started to detonate, we needed a direct, fast route out and away before the Teliban realised what went down. Our target was on the periphery of the city, and I could do one of two things once the operation culminated sucessfully: either keep driving and then double back in a wide arc, or, my prefered option, drive straight back through town. Under the circumstances, the first option might seem more sensible and less risky, but once the enemy is aware of what you're upto, they'll close the whole country down. It's better to run, keep running and don't look back, put distance between yourselves and them, and hope to god you've got a little bit of luck on your side. If we got ourselves stuck the wrong side of Afghanistan it would mean pushing on through to one of the former Soviet satellite republics, China, or Iran, and with a lack of fuel, our chances of making it out would be slim. Besides, I'd rather fight it out with the Afghans. The Afghans are brave but disorganised, whereas the other countries tend to have a much greater infrastucture. It would be easier to go out the way we came, we were familiar with the roads, and providing there was no fuck ups along the way, everything should be fine. Or at least that's what I kept telling myself, even though a little voice in my head told me something different. These jobs are never fine, there's always a fuck up somewhere along the line; we'd have to see where.
I pulled the vehicle from the main city streets, entered a warren of muddy back alleys between what passed for local housing, (mud huts with no doors windows or roofs,) and rolled the car slowly along, looking for rat runs which we could use to make our escape if things went tits-up in a big way. The back streets were more repugnant than the city itself; the mud walled houses all had nits blown off, and the alleys themselves were basically no more than open sewers, where the shit and piss ran away towards clogged broken drains. No wonder the country was crawling with disease; no wonder TB and typhoid were rife amongst the population, no wonder only half the children made it to adulthood. Thank fuck we packed bottled water.
The 4x4 squeezed down between the house, and once the road opened up again, I could see the Fort on the far side. It looked deceptively small in the pictures, compared to what sat in front of me. The fucking thing was huge, about the size of two Wembly stadiums and boxed shape. The fact the Afghans in recent years had packed the dirt up the side of the walls would make life easier to get in, but the thought of getting out turned my veins to ice.
I assume, during the Russian occupation, the Afghans mounded the walls to stop the tanks blasting through, after all, a couple of feet of solid, dried mud walling wouldn't stop a T72 round: but thirty foot of the stuff wound. Where the slopping wall ended at the base, a busy road circled round, with a small woddy (dry riverbed) beside that. There was no outside guards I could see, and perhaps more advantageous for us, no observation towers either. In fact, from the vehice I couldn't see anything to make us on the way in.
'Teliban no let strangers in,' said Nelson. 'No like strangers, Teliban.'
I wasn't about to tell Nelson we were going in over the wall as soon as it got dark, because it would mean one of two things. One, he might escape, tell the Taliban about us and our cover would be blown; or two, I'd have to shoot him, and from what I could see, there weren't that much left to shoot. I drew the 4x4 to a halt, let it idle while all of us in the car surveyed the situation. As the fort was boxed shape, it didn't need that much thinking about; wherever we went in, we'd face the same problem. We couldn't enter the fort from the back because there was no roads, only a long dry water conduit. We couldn't really attack it from either side because there was buildings overlooking the place. It had to be, go in from the front and risk being seen from the road, but fuck'et, what option was there? Keep thinking of the money.
'You crazy Irishmen wanna go in, no?' Nelson was getting on my fucking nerves, and if he wasn't careful, I slotted him in the seat and throw him out into the back alleys on our way out. 'You people go under, yes?' He had a cheeky tone to his voice, and his good hand made a sort of wave motion. I turned slowly to look at him. He sat there in the passenger seat in rags, a lopsided turban balancing on his head, the end of which hung limply over his shoulder and down his right hand side. He stank to high-heaven, but what he said got my attention as we sat parked up. If Nelson knew another way in, I was more than prepared to listen to what he had to say, after all, going over the wall and across open ground even in the dead of night would prove difficult. The way my luck goes, I'd bump straight into the Osama himself.
'You show me?' I said, stabbing my finger hard into my chest. 'We go England place together after, yes?' He bartered.
Now, I'm normally a man of my word, and if I make someone a promise I usually expect to keep it. But Nelson was being unreasonable. We were in the arse end of the world, and the prospect of me taking him to 'England place' was non existent. A few extra coins was reality, with a couple of hund red fags and an M16 chucked in. But England, no.
'I give you five gold coins,' I bartered, holding my hand high. Nelson looked insulted, he lost his bit of broken English and started babbling away in his native tongue. 'Six gold coins,' I tempted.
'I go England place, I get passport, yes?'
'Okay, okay, you come fuckin' "England place" with us when we go,' I promised. I didn't have time to fuck about with Nelson and his dreams, I had a job to do and I wanted to get it over and done with. That meant in tonight, and away by first light. I didn't want to be fucking around another day in daylight, especially if the Yanks decided to pay them a visit with a squadron of stealth bombers. The clock ticked down on this one, and the sooner we entered and completed the job, the sooner we could all go home: Nelson excluded. I'd kick him out the fucking car near the Pakistani border or something. Until then, he could keep his dream, and I'd keep my money. 'Which way?' I asked, seething under my breath. I don't like people blackmailing me, it goes against the grain. A good barter's one thing, someone treating me like a cunt is something totally fucking different. Nelson really fucked me off.
In a temper I slammed the car into drive, took the handbreak off and followed his instructions. We turned 360% and headed off the way we came, back into the warren of detatched and terraced mud houses. About half way into what I suppose was the Afghan equivalent of a council housing estate, Nelson started to excite himself. I thought he might piss himself the way he bounced up and down in the passenger seat. 'There! There!' He yelled pointing.
Situated in amongst the wrecked windowless buildings, behind an old water pump was a small solid windowless building. It had one door made of old timber planks nailed together, and a thick chunky padlock holding it in place. There was no one round except a few kids playing with a steel hoop, a half eaten rat on the floor by the sanitation conduit and a decrepit old crone up ahead, bent over a stainless steel bowl washing her dishes from a hand operated water pump. I hit the breaks, ripped the handbrake up and pulled the door catch. Nelson was out the car before I was, rounded to my side and pointing at the padlocked door. I moved back to the car, leaned in the rear windowand told Jimmy and Solly I wanted them on stag, either end of the tight alley keeping watch. Mickey could come with me. As Jimmy and Solly left the car, trotted quickly to either end of the alley and positioned themselves, I dug the screws of the lock out with a commando knife. They weren't in that deep, and as the wood had been savaged by ants, they practically fell out. The door burst open. A dust laden environment inside filled my nostrils with a muggy smell; I looked slowly round the room as a shaft of sunlight lit it. The room couldn't have been more than fifteen foot square. It had a thick dust floor. I suppose it was no more than a storage space for wheat, that sort of shit.
'You 'aving a fuckin' larf...' I mumbled towards Nelson, as I stood, both hands on my hip looking at a large empty space, with my shadow reaching over the far wall. He pushed me aside, walked into the centre of the room and turned to face me. He smiled. Talk about give us a clue, I thought he might tug his ear: Sounds like; then I remembered, the drugs barons cut it off for him, I began to have sympathy for them. If Nelson didn't buck his ideas up, I'd cut the other fucking one off for him. I still stood with my commando knife in hand.
'What?' I barked, and lifted my hands empty.
Nelson bent down, swept his hand over the dusty floor until he found the edge of an old piece of cloth. He pulled it back, causing the dust to explode in a cloud of particles. I coughed, moved back and waved my hand in front of me to clear a path. Moving forward again, I saw what excited him: to be honest, I was a little excited myself now. Directly centre, in the floor of the room was a trap door. It looked like a thick sheet of plywood with two circular holes cut on the right side: just enough to get your fingers through and pull it up. I entered the building, moved straight to the target, lifted the board with a heave, and as I threw it back, I sawa series of slopping steps leading down to a basement. There was about twenty steps which descended into a narrow black abyss.
'You come with me, now, please...' said Nelson, and led the way. I drew a small flashlight from my jacket, climbed down a few of the steps, and then lit the torch. A shaft of yellow light travelled along the tunnel, the beam lost after about twenty yards, and I wondered to myself just how long the thing was?
The tunnel itself was about seven foot high, arched over at the top like those old medieval castle tunnels and made, like everything else in this godforsaken country of dried red, mud bricks.
'Tel-li-ban hide in fort. Tel-li-iban kill Russians; steal Russin's guns. Then Russians capture fort. No more Russians guns, yes. Teliban close tunnels.' Babbled Nelson.
Well, if they did, they didn't make a very good job of it. A shone the flashlight round the walls and ceiling, casting monstrous sallow yellow circles. I checked for cracks. I didn't want to wind-up entombed in the fucking place. From what I saw, it looked solid. It wasn't that dissimilar in size to the old London sewage system, only there was no water here. It was drier than a camel's arse in a sand storm. The only thing I saw move in the tunnel was a disturbed scorpion skuttle into one of the aged crevices. We walked speedily along the tunnel for a few minutes before we came across another set of mud steps. As a chink of outside light cut a strand of natural light I hesitated. I killed the torch, pulled Nelson back by the scruff of the neck, and carefully climbed the steps one at a time. I hugged one side of the wall and stretched my neck. A shaft on penetrating light lit my face. I looked up and saw the plywood sheet had been damaged this end. I reached out and delicately laid the palm of my flat hand on the underside. I checked for few minutes for foot vibration, and when happy no one stood guard, I inched the floor up. A high pitched sound manifested from the rusty hinges. With the floor open a few inches. Mickey held the hatch open for me. Nelson was told, in no uncertain terms, to stay where he was. We didn't need a one eyed, one armed, one legged Afghan with us, regardless of how good he was. The room was identical this end to the other end of the tunnel, only from here, as I opened the door, I could see right inside the lion's den. There was dozens of bushes in the way. Through a wed of twigs, I saw loads of little Afghans mill around in a huge open court yard. There was trucks on the distant side, and a selection of small mud built buildings on the far left hand side. The US satellite images didn't show them, which in itself demonstrated why you need to get down and dirty with terrorists, not just rely on aerial observation. I sat squinting as I tried to observer more, but I couldn't see anything. I moved away from the door and started to think. We only really had two options open to us. But unlike before, when all I wanted was to get in and then get out, I could now lengthen the the period we remained if I so chose. With access to the Teliban stronghold guaranteed, we could move backwards and forwards at will. Although, if the kids saw us on the way in, like the ugly old crone washing her dishes did, it would fuck everything up. Perhaps we should move quickly, lessen the risk of capture and fuck off as soon as possible. Okay, our intelligence wouldn't be quite so good as it otherwise might have been if we conducted a recce or two, but at least we'd be on our way back to Blighty by morning.
I also had the option of canvasing opinion from the lads if I wanted to, but I know what their response would be. Mickey would leave the decision to me, Solly would still be making up his mind a week tomorrow, and Jimmy'd be like some soppy bird trying to sort out what pair of sohes to wear: Oh, I don't know Jonny, what d'you reckon?
What I wanted was the job done properly; it's a credibility thing with me. I like to know I'm a professional; I also like other people to know it especially people like the spooks back in London. Fuck ups in the past weren't down to me, regardless of what they suggested back in the hotel in Feltham.
'Back out Mickey,' I instructed. Mickey climbed down the steps. I followed him, sealed the overhead door behind me, and with it closed, I illuminated the flashlight, and we moved back the way we came along the narrow tunnel to where the other two waited for us.
